She wanders, lost in an aisle of carburetors and brake calipers, white boxes, blue stickers, black numbers. In her pocket, her cell vibrates against her leg. Don’t answer it. I can’t answer it. She touches her thigh where her cell rests. I wonder who it is…
The ringing stops.
Pick up the phone, Jackson. If there’s one thing I can count on you to do, it’s to not follow the rules. She has been shuffling through parts in a four by four box about five feet up from the floor. The box settles uneasily on a pile of rotors and brake drums. Someone has pushed the latter away from the box, having not seen Reagan inside.
Whoever this is is seriously blowing up my phone. Jackson looks around, making sure no one can see her. She takes the phone from her pocket and checks the number. Reagan. Well, there’s no way I’m answering that. Only… She presses the talk button and tentatively puts the phone up to her ear.
“Hello?”
Come on, Jackson. Ring. Ring. A voice on the other end answers weakly.
“Jackson! Why didn’t you answer the first time?”
“You told me not to!”
“You picked a fine time to start following the rules,” Reagan says.
Jackson fumbles several syllables from her lips
“Just get back here! I’m stuck in a box.”
Silence prevails for dragging seconds before Reagan hears a peal of laughter getting closer to her. Jackson nearly doubles over when she catches sight of Reagan stuck in the box above the rotors and drums. She’ll stop laughing eventually…
RJ Plant 